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'Tis nature's worship-felt-confest
In trackless woods, and boundless plains,
Dear babe! ere yet upon thy years
But little reck'st thou, O my child!
And the dark mystic sphere behind!
Little reck'st thou, my earliest born!
Of fiends who stab the heart they woo-
Would'st thou might never reck them more!
But thou wilt burst this transient sleep,
Thy tears must flow, as mine have flow'd—
Sorrow must wash thy faults away;
And thou may'st wake, perchance, to prove
Unconscious babe! tho' on that brow
Oh! could a father's prayer repel
A darling child's allotted care
Then thou, my babe, should'st slumber still,
A parent's love thy peace should free,
Sleep on, my child, thy slumber brief
Soon wilt thou reck of cares unknown,
Yet be thy lot, my babe, more blest-
Then hail, sweet miniature of life!
Lamb of the world's extended fold!
Sweet promise of ecstatic years!
How fainly would I bend the knee,
MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN.
WHO is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly-fix'd eyes Seem a heart overcharg'd to express?
She weeps not; yet often and deeply she sighs; She never complains; but her silence implies composure of settled distress.
No aid, no compassion, the maniac will seek ;
On her poor wither'd bosom, half bare, and her cheek
Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day,
The trav❜ller remembers, who journey'd this way,
As Mary, the Maid of the Inn.
Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with delight,
Her heart was a stranger to childish affright,
When the wind whistled down the dark aisle.
She lov'd; and young Richard had settled the day, And she hop'd to be happy for life :
But Richard was idle, and worthless; and they Who knew him, would pity poor Mary, and say That she was to good for his wife.
'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night, And fast were the windows and door;
Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright,
""Tis pleasant," cried one," seated by the fire-side, To hear the wind whistle without."
"A fine night for the Abbey!" his comrade replied; "Methinks a man's courage would now well be tried, Who would wander the ruins about.
"I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear
"I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried,
“That Mary would venture there now!” “Then wager and lose!" with a sneer he replied; "I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side, And faint if she saw a white cow."
"Will Mary this charge on her courage allow?"
With fearless good-humour did Mary comply,
The night it was dark, and the wind it was high,
O'er the path, so well known, still proceeded the maid,
Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight; Through the gateway she enter'd, she felt not afraid; Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night.
All around her was silent, save when the rude blast Howl'd dismally round the old pile;
Over weed-cover'd fragments still fearless she pass'd, And arriv'd at the innermost ruin at last,
Where the alder-tree grew in the aisle.